Life Gets Busy

 So, a little walk down Memory Lane is always a treat, right? I pretty much covered my youth, and now, in 2022 I find I'm a 70 year old woman who always seems too busy to write. So let's skip the mundane. After my adventures I moved to Toronto, (and I may have covered this) got a job, and lived a rather boring life. 

I occasionally went to plays, movies or concerts, but mostly shopped for food on my way home from work, cooked it when I got there, ate, and watched TV or played music before bed, then got up, showered, went to work and did the evening thing again. It wasn't exciting. It was what we were supposed to do, I thought. Day followed day, evening followed evening, weeks and months went by with only the weather changing. Many mornings in winter I caught the bus with frozen hair after washing it. I stopped for coffee at a cafe near where I worked. I took it to the office with me, and day after day I did the same things.

I'm not saying all of my job was boring. There were some brief satisfactions. But of course, they tended to be short-lived and often solitary with the bulk of my work being a sameness that both monotonous and comfortable. To this though, I hate filing and I have a really difficult time getting the paperwork at home done. I don't like paperwork. My main procrastinations in life involve everything I had to do most days in my office. I worked for a post-secondary education facility that taught film and photography. So it had its moments. But mostly it had its sameness, day in, day out. I was supposed to think I was lucky there was a women's washroom near my office, because at one time, most of the students were male. But things were changing and at least that was nice to see. But while necessary, the women's washroom was not quite the thrill I think it was supposed to be. 

I'm not sure why I revisited this job first. I guess it was the better one, but before I started working for the school, I worked for an interfaith church audio-visual facility. I should mention here, if I haven't already, that I'd left the church in the neighbourhood where I grew up, at age 11. I had a epiphany in the church parking lot that told me if I kept attending this church I'd grow up to be like the very two-faced women I had witnessed being mean to another woman. I didn't want that to happen. So I refused to go back to Sunday School. I was working for the church facility because it was a job, and I couldn't be disillusioned by what they did. I already had been. And parts of it was fun. Because churches tend to be cheap, I got to try my hand at different little jobs that someone more knowledgeable should actually have been hired to do. But they just told me what they wanted, how to do anything technical, and I did my best to deliver. I didn't get everything right of course, but I did okay and had some fun learning how to work sound equipment for videos, be a floor manager, work on sets, etc. But of course, it didn't pay well, and the school, though not as interesting, was a step higher in salary. But this only describes the way I made money, which went to rent and food and the sameness of my life. It was the way people lived in Toronto in those days... most of us, anyway. But there came a day when everything changed.